Dear 100-Year-Old Me,
Well, here we are—today, I turn 44, and apparently, I think I’m going to live to 100. Optimistic, aren’t we? Either medical science is going to seriously pull its weight, or you’ve just been too stubborn to go anywhere. Either way, congratulations on somehow avoiding expiration for a full century. I assume you’re reading this with a strong coffee because, let’s be honest, if you’ve given up caffeine at this point, what’s even left to live for?
So, tell me—did they finally crack the gluten-free code, or are you still eating bread that tastes like compressed sadness? If they’ve cured coeliac disease, I really hope you spent an entire decade eating every forbidden food purely out of spite. If not, well, at least you had a lifetime of telling people, “Yes, gluten actually does make me sick. No, it’s not a fad.”
By now, I assume your body has staged a full-scale rebellion. If you can get out of a chair without making an involuntary groaning noise, I’ll be impressed. And did you finally move to Cornwall? Please tell me you’re not still sitting around thinking, “Maybe next year.” At 100, I’m assuming it’s now or never.
Also, did the birds ever show up, or is your feeder still just a squirrel’s personal snack bar? And more importantly—did you ever manage to keep a houseplant alive for more than a few months, or did you just give up and accept that greenery isn’t your thing?
I hope you’re still writing, still laughing at your own bad jokes, and still finding ways to embarrass yourself in public. Some things should never change, no matter how many candles are on the cake. Speaking of which, did you even bother with birthday candles at this point, or do you just light a small bonfire and call it a day?
Anyway, happy birthday, old man. Enjoy it while you can—at your age, even getting up too quickly could be considered an extreme sport.
Cheers,
Ben (the slightly less ancient version of you)
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